


What Can't Be Changed

by devilinthedetails



Series: Changes and Splashes [2]
Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Acceptance, Friendship, Gen, Government, Grief, Mourning, Politics, References to Suicide, changes, kingship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25293100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Early on in his reign, Jon relies on his friends to rule and overcome his grief for his lost parents.
Series: Changes and Splashes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832326
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	What Can't Be Changed

What Can’t Be Changed

It was spring. A season for celebrating new life and new growth. Yet all Jon could think about was death heavy as the marble monuments built to honor his parents in the Conte crypts beneath the palace. First his mother, weakened by the vile magic of his treacherous cousin Roger, had succumbed to a coughing sickness in late March. Then his father had followed her to the grave in a hunting accident that seemed all too deliberate. 

That left Jon to rule a country torn apart by doubt and indecision while buried up to his neck in his own grief. Grief that he couldn’t allow to drown him as it had swallowed his father. There was so much that he had to accomplish even before he was crowned king. He couldn’t afford to fixate on the past. He had a future he must carve and create for himself and his realm. 

He couldn’t do so alone, he was clever enough to realize that, but he also was smart enough to understand that he didn’t have to because there were people he could rely upon for support—people who would be pillars of his life and government so neither crumbled into ruins. 

He gazed across the desk at Gary, his loyal cousin and unofficial Prime Minister, a post that would have to be formalized upon his coronation. With somewhat dizzying incongruity, he remembered them both as two boys splashing in a creek during an idyllic summer spent at Naxen. After they had soaked themselves, they had sprawled on the grassy brook bank in the sunlight, waiting for the golden rays to dry their clothes. With the sun shining down on them on that lazy afternoon, Jon had asked Gary how it had felt to know this was his last summer of freedom before beginning page training. 

Only now that he finally comprehended what crushing responsibility meant with both his parents dead in such swift succession of one another and him expected to rule Tortall through this tumultuous period was he dryly amused by the naivety behind that question. The notion of page training representing a loss of freedom would have made him snort now. There had been too many pranks and swims in the Olorun for it to represent a true loss of freedom. He just hadn’t appreciated the freedom he’d had as a page until it was gone. 

Perhaps Gary had been wiser than him even back when they were boys by a babbling brook because he had responded to Jon’s question by pointing out that he was too smart to waste time worrying about what he couldn’t change. 

Maybe there was a core truth in that Jon still needed to learn. He couldn’t be distracted by what he couldn’t change: the deaths of his mother and father. He had to center his attention on what he could change in his realm. That was his duty and his only path to continued sanity. Down any other lane lurked the madness and depression that had claimed his father, he was certain of that in his blood and bones. 

“Your research has confirmed it’s my royal privilege to name whomever I wish as Commander of the King’s Own?” Jon returned his focus to Gary, whom he had asked to investigate the precedent for a king who had not yet been crowned relieving the Commander of the King’s Own of his duties and appointing another knight in his stead. 

“Yes.” Gary nodded. “It’s more conventional to wait until after your coronation, but there is precedent for it. You may appoint any knight you wish to the post.” 

“I don’t intend to wait until after my coronation to appoint the Knight Commander of my choice.” Jon drummed his fingers on his desk. Under the leadership of the foppish, perpetually drunk Sir Loukas, the Own was not so much a fearsome fighting force as it was a magpie collection of eligible bachelors recruited from the ranks of second-born noble sons and wealthy merchants. Like a glittering, gaudy bauble, the Own’s primary purpose in its current conception was to dance attendance at extravagant court functions, but Jon had a different vision for the King’s Own. He would reshape it into a strong agent of his will. A force capable of enforcing his power over enemies foreign and domestic because there were so many of those enemies in the world. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of compiling a list of candidates whose experience would make them suitable for a position of such prestige.” Gary fished for a scroll of parchment beneath a mountain of them and unfurled it. Recognizing the term “experience” as a potential euphemism for aged, Jon was not surprised when every name his cousin proceeded to rattle off had passed the peak of life and begun its slow descent. 

Interrupting the list of candidates who would no doubt prove stodgy and prone to creaking with every movement, Jon lifted a palm to silence the advisor he depended on the most. “That won’t be necessary, Gary. I’ve already selected the perfect candidate. The one who will reform it into the respectable fighting force I need to be an instrument of my will.” 

“Whom?” Gary arched an eyebrow. 

“Someone you know very well.” Jon cracked a slight smile that made him feel as if his face were breaking. Every smile these days made his face feel like that. “Sir Raoul of Goldenlake.” 

“Raoul?” repeated Gary, gawking at Jon as if he had sprouted a dozen more heads. “You want Raoul to be Knight Commander of the Own?” 

“You’re to be my Prime Minister.” Jon was unwavering. “Why shouldn’t Raoul be Knight Commander of the Own?” 

“Because they’ll say it’s nepotism.” Gary’s every word was sharply shaped. “They’ll say it’s you placing your friends in high places without regard to who has earned the right to occupy those positions.” 

“The right to occupy those positions belongs to whomever I decide it should.” Jon was too determined to be daunted by any nebulous “they” who might accuse him of nepotism. “Important positions will only be filled by those I can trust. If that means favoring my friends, so be it.” 

“So be it.” Gary sighed as if to say: On your own stubborn head be it. “Don’t say I failed to warn you what the court grumbling will be.” 

The court grumbling began the next morning when Jon met with Sir Loukas. 

Sir Loukas’s eyes were bleary and bloodshot as if he had been in his cups late last night as Jon opened their meeting with a deceptively simple observation that seemed more innocuous than it was. “You’ve served the realm as Knight Commander of the Own for many long years.” 

“Fifteen years.” Sir Loukas raised his goblet of elderflower wine in a toast to his own tenure. Jon thought it was rather too early for wine, but Sir Loukas had requested the beverage when Jon had solicitously inquired what he wished to drink. “Fifteen distinguished years.” 

Sir Loukas slurred his s’s but Jon pretended not to notice in the name of politeness. “Fifteen distinguished years,” he agreed, tactfully refraining from mentioning that this distinguished service had largely taken the form of indulging in wine at court parties and Corus taverns. “The kingdom is grateful for your faithful service, and you’ve certainly earned the right to a peaceful countryside retirement.” 

“Retirement?” Sir Loukas glared at Jon with an abrupt, stony suspicion. “Do you think I’m an old dog who must be replaced by an arrogant young pup? Is that it? Are you trying to force me out of my post?” 

Before Jon could control his own flaring temper to attempt to calm the escalating situation, Sir Loukas reached his dramatic conclusion on a screaming high note, “You can’t relieve me of my duties with the Own if that’s what you want because I resign my post as Commander of the Own.” 

“Sir Loukas, I relieve you of your responsibilities with the Own.” Jon pronounced each syllable with a courtesy sheathed in ice, formality its own elevated form of rudeness. “I hope you’ll enjoy a peaceful retirement in the countryside.” 

After that contentious conversation, two competing accounts of why Sir Loukas no longer commanded the Owen emerged at court. No doubt seeking to save face among the courtiers, Sir Loukas told anyone who would listen that he hadn’t been relieved of his duties—that was a pernicious rumor—but had resigned, while Jon staunchly insisted on his official story that he had indeed relieved Sir Loukas of his position as Knight Commander of the Own. 

With these two opposing versions of history vying to become the dominant court narrative, Jon summoned Raoul to his quarters for a private discussion he intended to end in a promotion and assigned mission. 

“I trust you’ve heard that Sir Loukas has been relieved of his duties as Knight Commander of the Own.” Jon didn’t beat around the bush but offered this direct comment as soon as Raoul had been seated and poured a drink by a servant. 

“Actually I heard that he’d resigned.” Raoul’s expression was more befitting of a mischievous toddler than the grown man he purported to be. 

“He was relieved of his duties.” Jon paused to emphasize his account of the events that had transpired between him and the former Commander of the Own before resuming, “I wish to name you as his successor, but I don’t wish for you to lead as he did. I don’t want the Own to be an ornament for my parties and banquets. I want it to be transformed into a legitimate fighting force that garners respect both within our borders and abroad. I believe you can do that. Do you?” 

“Of course,” Raoul answered, firm as rock, as Jon had anticipated he would. “I’ll have the Own turned around and smartened up as quick as I can.” 

“Excellent.” Jon permitted himself a tight grin of satisfaction before his face once more settled into the somber cast that had defined it since his mother’s death. Telling himself that he wasn’t mourning but staring into the future without flinching, he added crisply, “Your first mission is to find Alanna.” 

Uncle Gareth had indicated that he did not desire to remain King’s Champion indefinitely and had hinted that perhaps a certain Lioness sung about in the streets could fill the role in his stead. 

Jon hadn’t seen or heard from Alanna since their heated argument in the desert in which she had vehemently refused to marry him. The fervent rejection had stung but the pain had worn away as he grieved his parents and sought to establish his authority of a country in turmoil. 

Now he didn’t wish to marry her though he would do so faithfully if she asked him to honor his proposal. He only wanted his best friend—the person who disagreed with him and made him laugh in a way nobody else ever had or could—back from her adventuring. He needed his best friend beside him as he began his reign. To rule he needed to surround himself with those he trusted, girding himself with friendship as a knight would armor before a battle. 

“Find Alanna?” Raoul couldn’t hear Jon’s thoughts so his tone was wary. “Why?” 

“So I can name her my Champion.” Jon folded his fingers together, reflecting that he and his reign would only be as strong as the friends he trusted. Yet he couldn’t share that notion with even his most trusted friends. For a king, there had to be limits in confidences exchanged with friends or faith would falter. 

He would, he thought with a feeling of melancholy like lost innocence, be able to accomplish and survive anything with the help of his friends, but he would never be able to tell them that because it would be too much of a departure from his royal dignity. He would have to hope that they would forever sense what he could never say.


End file.
